Hope
by closetbound
Summary: All things end in hope. Warnings: CD and mild slash. complete.


Title: Hope

Summery: All things end in hope.

Pairing: H/D

Rating: PG-R

Warnings: fluff, angst, CD

Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me. He and his friends, enemies, and acquaintances belong to J.K. Rowling. I'm just playing in her world.

It was 2:37pm on a Tuesday afternoon when Harry's world went pear shaped. He had learned at the tender age of eleven that there was a certain order to things. At the end of July, he would learn something new, disturbing, and possibly dangerous--and be less disturbed and frightened than was strictly prudent. On Halloween, some great excitement would occur, leaving him exhilarated and curious. The same event usually left his friends and , more recently--and vocally, his lover questioning his sanity and his ability to look after his own safety. Just after Christmas, he was scheduled to make some grand discovery, unfailingly sending him down entirely the wrong path, which would be discovered at the last possible moment, propelling him into yet another "foolhardy Gryffindor mission to insure the end of the Potter line." He would live yet again, thanks in large part to an unlikely amount of luck, and Dumbledore would arrive with dramatic flair at the most opportune moment to save the day. It was the natural order of things, and he was quite comfortable with it. Today was June 29th. Harry sat in his flat, flipping through "Quidditch Through the Ages" for the 63rd time, secure in the assumption that he had about a month before he needed to start worrying again.

Harry glanced up at the knock on his door before calling out that it was open, setting his book aside and standing with a grin when Hermione slipped through and closed the door softly. He made it around the chocolate leather sofa (He'd never again make the mistake of calling it brown.) and past the bookcase before he noticed the tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Hermione?"

Harry watched her warily as she took three steps and placed a cold hand (why were her hands cold?) on his elbow.

"You might want to sit down," she said quietly, watching him too closely as she led him back to the sofa. He knew that face. It was the death face, and he wasn't prepared to see it in fucking June.

She sat, pulling him down beside her and dropping his elbow to take his hand. She was too reluctant, avoiding his eyes one moment and staring into them too intently the next. It was someone he knew then, someone he cared about. He felt a flash of fear.

"I haven't heard from him today," he said, feeling more than hearing the slight hitch in his voice. Not him, he pleaded silently. Not him, not him, not him…

"It wasn't Draco," she said, squeezing his hand.

"Thank God," Harry sighed, feeling slightly guilty at the wave of relief that washed over him. Just remember, he prepared himself, whoever it is, it could have been worse. "Who?"

"It was…" Hermione had that look she got when she didn't know the answer in class, like the entire world had rearranged itself while she slept and she still wasn't sure which way was up. "It was Professor Dumbledore. He--he just died--in his sleep. He was supposed to meet--"

"It's June," Harry muttered, staring down at their linked hands, vaguely wondering why he wasn't crying. He felt--empty.

"What?"

"Nothing." Harry couldn't tear his eyes away from their hands, the way their fingers linked and overlapped. Hermione had a small scar between the knuckles of her middle and ring fingers. He wondered if she knew.

"Do you want to come to the Burrow?"

The scar was dark pink against her pale skin. It was shaped like a backwards C, except pointy, like when he and Ron had tried to write messages on the Quidditch pitch with twigs back at Hogwarts.

"No."

Her knuckles were white. His were red. He wondered if white knuckles came from whatever was making her skin so cold. White, pink, dark pink. There was a joke, something about a baby. Draco had thought it was funny. Where was Draco?

"I could stay here--or call Ron."

Harry shook his head, his eyes still fixed on their fingers. He watched the play of tendons over knuckles as he slowly stretched out his fingers and spread them, releasing her hand.

"No. Go on. I--" Harry lost his train of thought for a moment, watching his knuckles go white when he made a fist. "I'm tired. I'm going to bed."

Hermione was quiet for a moment.

"Ok, Harry," she said, standing. "I'll be back in the morning. I know none of us want to think about it right now, but there's still a war to fight. We're meeting at 8:30."

Harry listened to her walk across his flat, around the chocolate sofa and past the bookcase to the door. He clenched and unclenched his fist in time to her footsteps.

"Harry, are you sure--"

"I'm ok."

Harry looked up, catching her eye, wondering why he still wasn't crying. He could see the tear tracks on her face. What color was that? Draco would know.

"Right--but--right."

And she was gone. Harry sat studying the small space between the edge of the door and the frame for three hours before standing, locking the door, turning out the lights, and walking slowly to the bedroom.

When Hermione's knock woke him the next morning, he couldn't quite make himself care enough to answer it.

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Draco appeared outside the door to the flat he shared with Harry on August 14th, trunk in hand and eyebrow raised at the two thirds of the Gryffindor trio that were not his lover sitting in the hallway. Two pairs of worried eyes came to rest on him. He smirked.

"I take it our dear hero is still moping," Draco said, lowering his trunk to the floor. "I suppose I should have expected no better, trusting Gryffindor sincerity in a situation that is clearly in need of a more Slytherin approach."

"Now is not the time," Granger glared. He had to admire that. The only other being he had ever met with the ability to glare with her voice was McGonagall. "He never comes out." Her voice had reverted to the helpless tone he had been able to practically hear in her owls. "He doesn't let anyone in. He won't even speak through the door. We've begged. We've pleaded. I don't know what else to do."

"And it's not like _you_ were here for him," Weasley grumbled, glaring like the predictable little weasel he was. It was really quite a shame that Granger was so taken with him.

"I have been away on Order business," Draco said, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms, "as you well know. It was your strategies that sent me, after all."

"Well, while you have been prancing all over Europe--"

"I seldom prance," Draco interrupted.

"Right," Ron said, rolling his eyes. "So, while you've been not prancing somewhere else, Harry's been in there doing Merlin knows what."

"While I would have adored the opportunity to abandon the fight to keep your girlfriend and her family in the ranks of the living, not to mention thwart the plans of a delusional madman to make this pretty little world his metaphorical playground, I was in the midst of making the great sacrifice of eating fine foods, drinking fine wines, and questioning fine, law abiding pure bloods as to whom they would feel superior if this fine planet were rid of bothersome muggles and insultingly common mudbloods."

"I take it the trip went well, then?" Granger asked. "Please tell me you have good news. It's been in short supply lately."

"We have the Zabinis, the Goyles, the Bulstrodes, the Boots, and possibly the Parkinsons," Draco said with a genuine smile. "There are more who wish for time to consider. News of Dumbledore's death made the situation more difficult. They want to see which way the wind will blow, but the whole plan went much better than I expected."

"Possibly?"

"The Parkinsons are less than fond of dirtying their robes," Draco explained.

"Your type of people, then," Ron smirked. "I bet you hang up your robes before sex."

"Granger," Draco smirked as he pushed away from the wall and lifted his trunk, "if you would be so kind as to explain the concept of metaphor to our dear Weasel, I have a lover to resurrect."

He bid said Weasel, now reverted back to his usual confused and glaring state, farewell with a sneer and nodded to Granger before letting himself into the flat. Merlin, the place _smelled_.

"Harry?" Draco called, abandoning his trunk by the door and switching on the lights. After a quick glance around the living room, he made his way through the flat. He pulled out his wand and dispelled the stench, taking note of several cereal bowls, half full of curdled milk, sitting on the kitchen table before entering their bedroom. Harry was on his back in the center of the bed, looking like he hadn't bathed in weeks.

"I don't suppose you would do me the favor of taking a shower before we have this discussion," Draco said, leaning against the doorframe. Harry's eyes made their way listlessly from the ceiling to Draco's face. He didn't speak.

"Right, then." Draco flipped on the light switch, and Harry winced. "I suppose they have already tried consoling," Draco said, crossing to sit on the edge of the mattress. "I would guess sympathy and sweet comforting words have been on past agendas as well. I would suggest sex, but your plan to keep the nose bearing public at bay with your nauseating aroma is a least slightly effective."

Harry's gaze was still flat, emotionless. Draco studied him a moment before kicking off his shoes and pulling his feet onto the bed.

"Well, brutal honesty it is, then." Draco leaned back against the foot board and crossed his ankles. "You are being an utter prat, you know. It is a bit of a mystery to me that you have managed to keep friends when you insist on treating them so poorly."

"I'm mourning," Harry muttered, closing his eyes.

"He speaks," Draco smirked. "You do realize that mourning need not be an _entirely_ solitary endeavor. Nor does it require an absence of soap."

"I can mourn however I damn please. The man was like a father to me. I loved him, and he's gone. I'm allowed to be upset."

"Ah, have we reached the pity party already?" Draco asked. "This is moving much more quickly than I anticipated. We may even manage to have you dressed and bathed before the day is finished."

"God, Draco," Harry snapped, opening his eyes to glare. "You're unbelievable. I know you weren't that fond of him, but I loved him, ok. This isn't a fucking pity party. You weren't as close to him as I was, and they weren't either. If I want to deal with this on my own," Harry snapped, crawling out of the bed and storming from the room, "it's none of their fucking business, or yours."

"Of course, Harry," Draco sneered, standing and following him from the room. He caught Harry's wrist and pulled, forcing Harry to face him. "No one could possibly have cared for him as you did. I certainly did not come to respect the man who held the parents of his pure-blood students, most of whom were Slytherin, at wand point and refused to allow any of us to be forced into Voldemort's service, and I most definitely never loved the man who allowed me to smear his robes with tears and snot the night my father died, never mentioning the fact that the man probably deserved ten times the punishment he received. Merlin, Harry. You call _me_ unbelievable? You self centered prick, everyone you know is in mourning for that man. How dare you dishonor his memory with the implication that you are the only one who's love and respect he earned."

Draco could feel his chest heaving, anger he hadn't felt in years making him want to lash out, to continue this feud he thought they had put behind them. In this moment, he could remember quite clearly why he had hated Harry Potter.

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered. "I--I know. You're right. I--I just don't know how--I shouldn't have said that."

"No," Draco said quietly, watching the clear emotions playing across his lover's face, remorse, despair, fear, pain. He could feel the anger flowing out of him, replaced by concern and exhaustion. "Harry, what the fuck is going on," he asked tiredly. "You never take loss well, but unless I am mistaken, there is something more at work here. I have never known you to ostracize yourself to this extent."

Harry sighed and looked away from him, running a hand through his hair. He'd lost weight, Draco noticed idly, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. Draco tried to ignore the part of him that was screaming at the unfairness of the whole situation, the part that wanted nothing more than to pull the lover he hadn't seen in nearly four months into the bedroom to relearn his body and hold him until he drifted off during the silly half asleep conversation that always followed.

"Things aren't supposed to go this way," Harry said quietly, walking across the room and looking out the window sightlessly. Draco followed and gave into the urge to press against him from behind, slipping his arms around Harry's waist and pretending not to notice them overlapping more than they had before he left.

"How are they supposed to go?" Draco asked, resting his chin on Harry's shoulder and gazing out over muggle London.

"I'm not supposed to lose."

"Harry," Draco said quietly, stepping back and turning Harry to face him. "The war is still being fought. No one will argue that the fight will not be more difficult without him, but we will manage. You will face the bastard when you must, and you will have an army standing behind you. With or without Dumbledore, you are still the boy who won't fucking die."

"No," Harry whispered. "Without Dumbledore, I die. It's part of the pattern, the way things always go. All I've ever been able to do is get myself into a mess and be lucky until Dumbledore shows up. Without him, Voldemort wins." Harry pulled away from him and walked to the sofa, curling himself into a ball. Draco turned and leaned against the window sill, studying Harry quietly for a moment.

"All right, I have given your hypothesis a moment of consideration and have come to the conclusion that it is utter bullshit," Draco stated. "You have apparently given up on the entire concept of logic."

"I have not," Harry grumbled, pouting. Draco smirked at him when he looked up. "Why is it that I turn twelve when I try to argue with you?"

"You lack the wit to be true competition, therefore you must resort to pouting and mumbling under your breath," Draco answered. "If you wish to prove me wrong, you could attempt an explanation of the supposed logic involved in your 'utter bullshit' theory."

"It is not utter--" Harry cut himself off, glaring. "Look, there's this pattern that seems to repeat every year. At the end of July, I learn about something dangerous. I spend all year trying to figure it out, and I get turned on to the wrong path. I figure it out at the last minute and run into the situation unprepared. I get really lucky and stay alive until Dumbledore shows and saves my life. After that, I get a brief rest until the next July." Harry glanced down at his hands. "Without Dumbledore, I don't get saved this time."

Draco shook his head and pushed away from the window sill. On the way to the sofa, he grabbed the quilt Harry had insisted on buying at a rummage sale--and displaying in the sitting room--from the floor. After settling next to Harry and pulling the ugly thing over both of them, Draco tipped Harry's chin up with two fingers until their eyes met.

"If that is your idea of logic, it is utterly amazing that you managed to graduate Hogwarts. I could point out the fact that practically every item on your list has been absent from at least one year's activities. For instance, if I am remembering the story correctly, Dumbledore never appeared in the Chamber. That alone is enough to disprove your theory. Also, did anything happen last month that I managed to miss? I understood that you were sequestered away for the past two months. Was I misinformed?"

"Well, no," Harry muttered, "but Dumbledore _died_ this Summer. I think that's enough."

"He died in June," Draco smirked. "You led me to believe that June was part of your vacation from evil."

"Yeah," Harry whispered, a small smile appearing on his face.

"Besides," Draco said seriously. "In the end, the battle is yours. If it were impossible for you to claim victory--you, not Dumbledore--this prophesy that we spend so great a portion of our time contemplating would never have been made."

Harry was quiet for a moment, just looking at him. "Thank you." That small smile finally managed to creep into his eyes.

"I trust you have been convinced of your stupidity," Draco said quietly, resting his hand on Harry's neck and circling his thumb over the pulse point, "and I need not be concerned that I will be required to repeat this conversation ?"

"Yes," Harry smiled wryly. "I'm no more likely to die while fighting the nearly immortal wizard than I was while Dumbledore was alive."

"Good, then," Draco muttered, slipping a hand into Harry's hair--and pulling it back with a wrinkle of his nose. "I would love to greet you properly, but please, for the love of Merlin, take a shower."


End file.
